


not really casual

by bibliosexual



Series: Tumblr fic [19]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, nerds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 03:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10779024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliosexual/pseuds/bibliosexual
Summary: He might be down for casual stuff, theoretically—in fact, he kind of expected he would be, and he’d even started down that path by making out with a random girl during orientation and then adifferentrandom girl later that same night at the freshman bonfire—except that then he walked into Biology on the first day of classes and there was Derek, and suddenly no one else looked half as interesting.





	not really casual

**Author's Note:**

> This was a very informal little ficlet I posted to [my tumblr](http://bibliosexxual.tumblr.com/post/156114865271/a-fluffy-thing-i-was-thinking-about-tonight) late one night, and then it unexpectedly got popular. I'm belatedly adding it here because I have a fondness for it, even if it's not as polished as a lot of my other tumblr fic. 
> 
> Fun fact, this was inspired by this one time in my junior year of college when I had to take an intro biology class. I spent all semester raising _E. coli_ samples in Petri dishes. You can probably guess how wonderful it smelled. The things I've done for gen. ed. requirements!
> 
> ANYWAY.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy~

They meet in Biology 101. Stiles is a freshman, and he’s in this class mostly because Scott is pre-vet and Stiles signed up for all the same classes because he has no earthly idea what he wants to do, career-wise. Derek is a junior Spanish lit major taking this because he needs the gen. ed., and he’s _terrible_. He’s the only person in the class who’s not a freshman. He’s always a few minutes late—that’s how he ended up sitting at the table by the door with Stiles and Scott the first day—and he’s so _gloomy_ , and he always lugs around this backpack full of Pablo Neruda books because he has a Spanish poetry class right before this one, and he takes the neatest, most meticulous class notes Stiles has ever seen. (Stiles, meanwhile, doesn’t take any notes. He takes photos of every slide with his phone as the professor talks and then spends the rest of the time goofing off quietly, doodling dumb stuff on Scott’s arm and working on five different assignments at once on his laptop.)

The class meets one hour three times a week for lecture sessions and once a week, practically all afternoon, for lab. It’s basic stuff, learning things like lab safety and how to use pipettes, and then they’re divided up for their semester-long partner projects, growing and monitoring various strains of bacteria in petri dishes. Stiles tries to get Scott as a partner, of course, but their professor separates them, probably because she’s seen how they act in class and suspects (correctly) that they’ll be a hazard to themselves and others if left together in a lab.

She matches Stiles with Derek instead. It’s not so bad. One day they have to put on gloves and rubber boots and wade into the creek behind the science center to gather samples, and Stiles nearly falls on his ass before Derek catches him with a surprisingly strong hand around his waist. Stiles hadn’t really noticed before just how _built_ Derek was under all the cardigans. He’s like Superman, hiding out in plain sight behind old-man sweaters and nerd glasses.

Sometimes they study together before a big test, all three of them, until Scott inevitably bows out early. Scott’s a natural at science; he barely needs to study to make A’s. Also, he’s sussed out just how much Stiles likes being left alone with Derek. He keeps sending Stiles pep talks about it over text.

Derek is brilliant, sure, but not in any way that helps him with this class, where he doesn’t have to spout off any Spanish or write any literary analyses. He’s frankly terrible at Biology. Stiles can see why he put off taking the class for so much of his college career. Stiles doesn’t mind helping him, though. Working through it all with Derek helps him remember it all better for the test.

Not to mention, he just plain _likes_ Derek. He looks so somber all the time that when he says a joke or snarks about something, Stiles is always pleasantly surprised. He can tell Derek is lonely; he comes from a big family, he tells Stiles, and he’s used to having lots of people around him, in his life, nosing in his business and dragging him to social events. But here he doesn’t know anyone except Stiles and Scott, really, since he just transferred here from another college. (He hasn’t said why, except that a girl was involved. It didn’t end well, apparently. Stiles doesn’t press.)

Stiles doesn’t hang out with Derek out of pity, though, and he tries to make that clear. He likes Derek’s company and finding out about little pieces of Derek’s life, music he likes and what other classes he’s taking and all the little minutiae of his day. He likes hearing Derek’s opinions and making fun of him a little and getting made fun of right back.

One Friday night Stiles texts him something silly from the book he’s reading. It’s like 3 a.m., and he’s surprised when Derek texts back only a minute later.

Stiles calls him. “What are you still doing up, man?”

Turns out Derek can’t sleep; he got sexiled from his room. Erica, he says euphemistically, “is having a really nice night.” (Stiles snorts.) The library is closed. All the academic buildings are locked. The common area on his hall is still trashed from a party last weekend that no one has cleaned up yet. Derek has taken refuge out by the little student garden at the bottom of the hill near his building; there’s a pond there with some benches. Stiles has nothing better to do, and it’s not like he’s going to sleep any time soon—he’d loaded up on caffeine while writing a paper, then finished it a ton sooner than he’d expected in a whirlwind mix of brilliance and bullshitting. Now he’s wired.

So he pulls on a hoodie and shoves his feet in the nearest pair of sneakers and jogs down the stairs and outside, where it’s cool but not freezing out, a nice night really. He finds Derek and they just sit there together on the edge of the pond and talk. It’s almost five a.m. before the conversation fades out to a comfortable silence and Stiles starts to feel his caffeine buzz wearing off. Derek stifles a huge yawn in his sleeve; it’s pretty adorable.

“Hey,” Stiles says on impulse, “if you want, you can totally come back to my room.”

Derek’s eyes widen, and Stiles realizes what it sounds like he’s said.

“Whoa, not what I meant. Not that I wouldn't— I mean, no lie, you’re really attractive,” Derek looks down at his feet at that, like no one’s ever told him he’s hot before, “but I just meant to sleep. Scott’s staying over at his girlfriend Kira’s apartment, so you could crash on his bed. He wouldn’t mind as long as I changed the sheets before he got back.”

So Derek agrees, and together they gather up the books he’d spread out to study before Stiles showed up. Stiles carries an armload for him since Derek looks dead on his feet. It’s weird how intimate it feels, just walking together, not saying anything, Stiles carrying Derek’s stuff for him.

Stiles and Scott’s dorm is tiny and windowless, practically a closet, with barely any room to walk around the furniture, the one rickety desk and the little bookcase and the bunk bed in the corner. Stiles can tell Derek’s surprised. Being an upperclassman and all, he probably has a room about three times this size. Still, he doesn’t say anything except to compliment Stiles’ _The Force Awakens_ poster on the closet door as he tiredly kicks off his shoes.

Stiles goes down the hall to the bathroom to brush his teeth and take out his contacts. When he gets back he remembers to ask, “Hey, dude, do you need to borrow anything?”

When there’s no response, he belatedly glances over at Scott’s bottom bunk. Derek is lying on his stomach on top of the comforter, one foot sticking out from the bed, so deeply asleep he’s practically unconscious. Stiles stares down at him for longer than is probably appropriate, feeling something warm and affectionate swelling just under his breastbone. Then he pulls down the extra blanket from the closet, covers Derek as best he can, and climbs up to his own bunk in the darkness. He falls asleep listening to the soft sound of Derek breathing.

He doesn’t wake up until almost noon. Back home, he never needed an alarm clock, always just woke up gradually as the sun lit up his room. Here, though, without a window in the room, it always feels like the middle of the night, no source of light but the weak 60-watt bulb of Scott’s desk lamp.

He’s halfway through checking all the notifications on his phone when he remembers he didn’t come home alone last night. He raises his head to look over the railing of his bed. Derek is awake and apparently has been for some time now, camped out at Stiles’ desk with a brick-sized tome of what looks like poetry.

“When did you get up?” Stiles groans blearily.

“Eight a.m.,” Derek answers, and god, Stiles knew Derek was a morning person but he didn’t realize it was _that_ bad. “I’ll probably take a nap later,” he adds, seeing Stiles’ expression.

Stiles laughs. “Me too, but not because I need the sleep. Just because it’s Saturday and I like naps. Naps are the best.”

He has just enough sense not to suggest they take a nap together, but he does add that to his mental list of things to daydream about extensively later, right alongside inventing a cure for cancer and finding out what Derek’s tattoo looks like. Derek let it slip once that he had one, right between his shoulderblades. It’s been one of the great obsessions of Stiles’ life ever since.

They eventually wander over to the dining hall together. They’ve finished their food (Derek eats almost as much as Stiles, which is truly impressive) and they’re in the middle of a pretty in-depth conversation about Don Quixote, based on the fact that Derek is thinking of doing his senior thesis on it and Stiles read it once in high school, when Erica wanders over.

“Looks like I wasn’t the only one getting lucky last night.” She winks.

Stiles splutters and Derek sinks down in his seat like he wants to disappear.

Erica bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, your _faces_. I was just kidding. I know Derek’s too lame to have any fun on a Friday night. Anyway,” she says, “if it’s okay with you, I was wondering if I could have the room today, too? I’m not quite done having my wicked way with Boyd. We’ve got some pretty extensive plans involving fruit and—”

“Please god, stop talking,” Derek says. “You can have the room.”

So that’s how Stiles ends up inviting Derek back to his dorm again for the afternoon. They’ve hung out a lot over the last few months, but never for this long before. He kind of expects Derek to say no now that the library’s open, but instead he says sure.

So they go back to Stiles’ dorm after Derek ducks by his room first for a change of clothes and some books he needs. As Stiles is fumbling to unlock his door, Greenberg from across the hall wolf-whistles at them obnoxiously on his way past to the bathroom. Stiles flips him off. Derek looks awkward.

“Do you usually, um… Did he think…” Derek starts when they’re in the room. He looks away. “Never mind.”

“Nah, it’s fine. Greenberg is always hooking up with people, so I guess he assumes everyone else must be, too, but I’m not. I mean, I’m not really a casual kind of guy.”

Actually, he might be down for casual stuff, theoretically—in fact, he kind of expected he would be, and he’d even started down that path by making out with a random girl during orientation and then a _different_ random girl later that same night at the freshman bonfire—except that then he walked into Biology on the first day of classes and there was Derek, and suddenly no one else looked half as interesting.

“Anyway,” he adds, obviously not wanting to get into all of that, “I’ve never had a hook-up, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Derek volunteers, “Me neither. I’m way too possessive.”

Stiles imagines, fleetingly, what it would be like to have Derek be possessive over him. It would be nice, he thinks. No one’s ever really gotten possessive over him before; no one’s ever really wanted to keep him. Fool around with him, sure, but not keep him. He doesn’t say anything.

Derek sits at Stiles’ desk again after Stiles assures him he doesn’t mind, and Stiles spreads out his biology notes on Scott’s bed because he doesn’t feel like making his own bed. Derek has to sit sideways in the chair because Scott’s using the space under the desk for storing everything that couldn’t fit under the bed or in the closet, and the desk is so close to the bed that Stiles’ knees keep knocking Derek’s.

The fifth time their knees bump and Derek apologizes _again_ , Stiles flippantly says, “If you’d rather, I could just sit in your lap. Problem solved.”

He’s used to saying that kind of thing around Scott because they have this habit of aimlessly flirting with each other as a joke. Stiles doesn’t think anything of it now, doesn’t even look up; he’s in the middle of highlighting a passage about cell division. He’s halfway through the paragraph before he realizes Derek has gone weirdly quiet. He looks up. Derek is staring at him like Stiles just said he had herpes or something. He’s got a smudge of ink on his chin and he’s taken off his glasses; he doesn’t need them to read, and Stiles can’t for the life of him remember where he learned this about Derek.

Stiles actually has to think for a few seconds to remember what he even said and connect that to the way Derek’s shoulders have gone so tense under his cardigan. “Oh,” he says when he realizes. “I was just kidding, you know.”

“So you don’t like me like that,” Derek says, not a question.

Stiles slowly puts down his highlighter. “I’m not saying that. I’m just saying I’m not going to ambush-straddle you in your chair.”

“But do you…” Derek shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“Wait.” Stiles blinks, sits up a little straighter. “Do you like _me_ like that?”

Instead of answering, Derek bites his lip and looks cornered, which is answer enough.

Stiles feels suddenly giddy. “Hey, can I kiss you?”

Derek’s hands spasm where he’s clutching his knees. “You want to kiss me?”

“No, I just asked you that hypothetically.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “Duh, I wanna kiss you.”

Derek looks endearingly flustered. He tries to push his glasses up his nose like he always does when he’s nervous before he seems to remember he’s taken them off. “Um. If you want. Okay.”

Stiles scoots forward eagerly on the bed and hits his forehead on the edge of the top bunk. “Ow. Sorry, that was supposed to be a lot more suave.”

“Nothing about you is suave,” Derek says, and it should be insulting but it’s really, really not.

Stiles ducks forward, avoiding hitting his head this time, and Derek leans down a little, and Stiles gets the impression Derek doesn’t do this kind of thing very often because he just pauses there, uncertain, waiting, not touching Stiles at all. Stiles grins and guides him down by the ears into a soft kiss, like a hello.

Derek is actually really, really good at kissing. Stiles cups Derek’s face in his hands, just to feel the way his jaw moves as he deepens the kiss, and moans.

“Wait, um,” Derek pants, and Stiles reluctantly pulls back. “Is this just because I’m convenient?”

“No. If I wanted convenient I could’ve been hooking up with fucking _Greenberg_ from across the hall all semester.” Stiles shudders a little at the thought. “Is this just because you’re lonely and I was nice to you?”

“No.”

“Oh, good. Then… carry on?”

“Yeah,” Derek nods, and sets about biting a mark into Stiles’ neck.

*

Scott comes back from Kira’s right about the time Stiles is saying rather loudly, “Shit, where are my pants,” from the top bunk. Beside him, Derek’s eyes widen, and he hastily ducks down behind Stiles’ naked torso.

Scott turns around and walks right back out again.

There’s a moment of silence.

“Oops,” Stiles laughs. Then he sees how hard Derek is blushing and he laughs even harder, until Derek reluctantly starts to smile, too.

When he finally gets control of himself, he wiggles around to straddle Derek and says, with as much seriousness as he can muster, “I really like you, you know. Like, really really.”

“I know,” Derek says, settling his hands warm and possessive on Stiles’ bare hips. “Me too.”

“We should date.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees. “Okay.”


End file.
